How Winchesters Say 'I Love You'
by RCB
Summary: A coda to episode 4.10. The title says it all, really. Beta provided by the lovely mrstotten.


**How Winchesters Say 'I Love You'**

The silence in the car was deafening.

There was at least a foot of snow down before they finally decided to stop for some sleep. They found a gas station, filled up the Impala, and stocked up on supplies. Sam went in, knowing that unless he did, all they'd have to eat would be Doritoes, M&M's, and whiskey.

Not really Sam's idea of a well balanced meal.

They had been prepared to sleep in the car, had all the old, thick, wool army blankets stashed away in the trunk for such an event, but Dean saw a sign and pulled off the main road.

"Damn snow," he muttered, as he tried to keep the Impala straight down the middle of the road, and out of the country ditches.

They made it, finally and without incident, to a small log cabin that had a neon sign advertising fishing licenses and bait. Sam gave Dean a look, letting him know he was unconvinced.

"Isn't anything else out here. It's this or the car," Dean said stubbornly, shutting down the Impala, and getting out. As soon as he opened the door, the blast of cold air hit Sam in the face like a slap, and he decided to let Dean go in alone. No sense both of them freezing their asses off just to find out that the cabins, "with a lake view", are only available in the summer.

He was surprised when Dean came back out the door, holding up a set of keys. Sam would have been annoyed that he was right, except he was too relieved that they wouldn't have to sleep in the car.

Dean got in quickly, blew on his hands and rubbed them together for a few seconds before he put the key in the ignition.

"We're cabin seven. About a mile up that way," Dean explained as he backed out of their parking spot. "Guy said a bigger storm is coming through. Probably get a few more feet by morning."

Sam nodded and tried looking for cabin seven, the blizzard started to pick back up in strength again, making it difficult to see very far ahead of them.

"Seriously. How do people live in this?" Dean asked him, and Sam just shrugged. This was the most Dean had talked since he had broke down and told Sam about Alastair. Dean was on a roll, in the speaking department, and Sam felt that if he answered, it might break the streak.

Besides, he had no idea what to say.

They finally found cabin seven, a small tiny thing that looked like it had thin walls. Sam saw a chimney though, and a stack of firewood against the side, so he had some hopes for the place.

They carried in their duffles and bags of supplies, and Sam went back to bring in some of the firewood. He came back in, arms loaded and heavy, knowing he was covered in snow. Dean tossed a few Abominable Snowman jokes his way, which Sam tried to act indignant about. He really just wanted to laugh and smile, because...

Dean was talking, and not drinking.

Yet.

As if on cue, Dean unscrewed the top on yet another bottle of whiskey and Sam tried his best not to look disappointed. Instead, he busied himself with starting a fire.

If his brother needed to drink, to cope, then the least Sam could do was make a fire so Dean would be warm when he inevitably passed out.

888888888

It was early, and Sam got dressed quietly not wanting to disturb Dean.

He went to the front window, and stared at the still falling snow, mesmerized by the sight of it. One perfect snowflake at a time. He wondered how many it took exactly, to accumulate the three feet of snow now on the ground.

Not that it mattered in any way. He just needed a distraction. Some way to forget last night's liquid-courage fueled confessions.

_" The first one was a man. He used to be an accountant, Sam. He told me that, right before I started to work on 'im."_

Dean had said that there weren't words to explain it.

Sam pondered how to choose the words to say, "I'm sorry you went to Hell for me." Everything that had happened to Dean was his fault. Dean had gone through all of that for him.

_"He um…wanted to__** teach**__ me. Said I was a damn good student."_

Sam walked outside, the snow finally tapering off, a hint of a blue sky on the horizon. He was always amazed at how a thick blanket of snow made the world into a perfect stillness. A comforting quiet, not the kind they'd had lately; shattered once against the side of the Impala a few weeks ago. Not the kind from last night, when Dean had talked and Sam just listened, his stomach full of guilt.

_"You can keep someone on the rack for days."_

Sam reached down into the snow, felt the wet cold against his hand. He picked a handful up and then turned his palm down, watching the fluffy mass fall back down to the snow drift. The Impala was buried; it would take them awhile to dig her out.

Not that Sam was really in any hurry. They needed this pit stop.

_"She…she had these freckles…I….Jesus Christ. Why'd they pull me out, Sammy? Why me?"_

At some point, he was going to have to say something. Something besides, "I'm sorry, Dean."

Because Dean wouldn't _let_ him apologize.

_"Don't do that. It's not your fault, okay? That's not why I'm telling you this."_

The snow was cold, wet and heavy, and Sam examined it up close. The snowflakes weren't perfect, not like he'd thought when he watched them fall. Once they hit, touching each other, they broke. Some were half there, some completely melted into tiny blobs on top of the ones waiting underneath.

Sam went back inside, his steps muffled, the temperature not cold enough to make the snow crunch under his boots. Dean was still asleep by the fire. He had turned over in his sleep, facing the door now, and Sam considered again how to tell him what he needed to tell him.

His broken brother, who was still, in Sam's eyes, utterly perfect.

_"I love you Dean, and I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."_

How can he apologize, when Dean wouldn't let him? How can they just…go back? How can he tell Dean, in words, how sorry he is? That he cares. That he loves him.

Sam realized that Dean was right. There are no words.

Winchesters are men of action, not words.

888888888

When the snowball hit Dean square in his sleeping face, he had his gun in his hand in a heartbeat, sputtering and using the other hand to wipe the melting snow away.

When Dean saw Sam's smirking face, instead of an attacker, he gave him an incredulous look.

"What are you gonna do about it?" Sam challenged, arms out wide, inviting Dean's retaliation.

"You little _prick_," Dean said, a wide grin slowly spreading from ear to ear. "Oh, it's on, bitch."

Sam didn't wait for Dean to get his boots on, he hightailed it out of the cabin, looking for cover.

888888888

"What is this?" Uriel demanded from Castiel, and started forward to interrupt the brothers. "They need to…"

Castiel, who had been watching them for hours, grabbed Uriel's arm and gave him a stern warning glare. "No."

When Dean got up from making his "snow angel" as he'd heard them call it, and then immediately relieved his bladder all over it, Castiel felt a strange sensation. The corners of his mouth felt pulled upwards in an uncomfortable fashion. He heard Sam laughing, the wind carrying it across the lake, all the way to Castiel's borrowed ears.

Castiel watched as Sam drew his snow angel into something perverse and pornographic, and then mimicked Dean by relieving himself onto it as well.

Castiel's uncomfortable feeling grew, and he was sure his mouth was contorted now.

"You think this **blasphemy** is constructive?" Uriel bellowed angrily. "We have important work…"

Castiel interrupted Uriel again, his grip tight and firm. He didn't look at Uriel when he spoke, however, the Winchesters held his curious gaze.

"Just, leave them_ be_, Uriel."

Castiel watched as Dean turned his head toward Heaven, tongue extended, catching the flakes on his tongue. His brother Sam, followed suit, laughing as he did so.

Castiel wondered what snow tasted like.

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There is a sequel to this, if you're interested: Our Father, Who Art…


End file.
